


Celestial Show and Tell

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Not quite smut, but contains highly suggestive content and sexual themes. Pleasantly inappropriate diner debate with Castiel and the Winchesters.





	Celestial Show and Tell

“Dean, regardless of how many times you insinuate it’s all I view at night while the rest of you sleep, I’m not referencing porn as a educational tool for human sensuality,” Castiel states, an eyebrow slung low to imbue his declaration with added gravity.

The waitress en route to your table overhears the angel and bypasses refilling your coffees to retreat to the kitchen.

“I do have better things to do with my free time,” Cas adds with a curt nod.

“Well that’s reassuring,” Dean snorts, emptying the white mug in his grasp and glancing around for the vanished waitress. “Humph,” he hums, shrugging, “they’re usually right on top of top offs in this place.”

Cas squints, continuing in a reflective deep rumble, “Although I do admit there is a certain allure to the idea of the pizza man spanking the babysitter he proclaims to love-”

The sip of soda aimed at your esophagus detours suddenly to your windpipe and you begin to choke and sputter on the carbonated fizzy beverage.

Sam airily laughs and leans over to pat your back. Features lit in amusement, he inquires under his breath, “You okay?”

You hold up a palm to indicate you’re fine in so far as the matter of respiring soda is concerned. Despite the violent spasm afflicting your lungs, you haven’t taken your focus off Cas. Early morning breakfast at a small-town diner conversation generally revolves around the case you happen to be working, but this chit-chat session has veered on an unexpected and titillating course. Given your amorous inclinations toward the angel, however unrequited they may be, you happen to have an especially keen interest regarding his professed ability to make a woman’s nether regions quiver and the ensuing argument with Dean over his claimed expertise.

“So then riddle me this – as an angel of the Lord, are you the dom or the sub in this hypothetical relationship?” Dean asks, pretty much forfeiting his chances of ever getting another coffee refill.

Cas stares gravely at the elder Winchester through subtly narrowed lids.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and reclines backward, shooting his friend a skeptical green smirk. “You’ve slept with what, one reaper? Newsflash Casanova – awkward angelic deflowering ending in mutual demise doesn’t make you an expert in the field. That kind of skill takes decades of cultivation.”

“And I suppose with all the seed you’ve sown and petals you’ve plucked, Dean, that you consider yourself some kind of master gardener?” you strain to find your voice and snark in Dean’s direction in defense of the angel.

Cas casts you a small appreciative warm smile that causes your cheeks to tint pink.

Dean’s smirk stretches wide in self-satisfaction. “You’re the one that said it, princess.” He winks.

Sam snickers between bites of egg white and veggie omelet and dutifully attempts to stay committed to the case – skimming police reports on his laptop.

Looking at you, the angel’s sparkling blues take on an unusually roguish glint; in response to Dean’s comment they roll up derisively at the ceiling and he sighs and shakes his head. “Intimate knowledge of the human form and tens of thousands of years of observing how it responds to every possible variant of-” he pauses, deliberately enunciating the next word “ _-stimulation_ more than make up for any lack of first-hand experience I have in this regard.”

Dean grunts and remains unconvinced. “Uh huh,” he somehow phrases the disbelieving utterance as a dare.

You risk another swallow of soda to try to soothe your scratchy throat.

Castiel – never one to back down from a challenge – boldly shifts his gaze to you, muttering, “I can prove it.”

Straw pursed between your lips mid-sip, your body goes rigid under the intensity of the angel’s unrestrained regard. You fight the desire to peer over your shoulder to see if there is someone else standing behind you who is actual the subject of his scrutiny. You swear a shadow of lust darkens his pupils for an instant and then his gaze brightens, returning again to the familiar clarity of a cloudless summer sky. Your furiously blushing countenance glimmers as a kite reflected in the endless enameled blue expanse. The prospect alone that perhaps he’s revealed some secretly harbored romantic feelings toward you when you’ve pined for him for so long is enough to make your particular womanly nethers quiver just now.

He reaches across the table, extending two fingers toward the center of your forehead.

It occurs to you you’ve never noticed before how perfectly long the digits are – tongue darting to wet your parched lips, the red and white-striped plastic straw slips from your mouth to twirl the rim of the glass. Your eyes cross to follow the flight of his fingers.

He halts his touch, hovering tantalizingly close to the heat of your skin. “As Dean incorrectly believes he knows everything there is to know about human pleasure, do you mind assisting me in resolving this debate once and for all?” he asks, head tilting sideways, aspect all innocence and earnestness and adorable puppies.

Your eyes flit to meet his. As far as you’re concerned, if he’s proposing throwing you on the table then and there to demonstrate the finer nuances of ecstasy to the diner’s bustling breakfast crowd then you’re not about to say no. Bacon and sex? It’s certainly a Dean Winchester approved activity.

Sam peers over his laptop, exchanging a glance with his brother, brow lifting.

Smirk fading in genuine shock, Dean wags his chin indicating they should just shut up and let whatever is going to happen, happen. He leans forward to rest his flannel-clad elbows on the edge of the table and, in lieu of popcorn, shoves a piece of buttered toast in his mouth.

You inhale and exhale a measured breath. In an effort to have a semi-normal social reaction to the really rather vague nature of the angel’s query given the very public location, you eloquently murmur, “Huh?”

“I-I meant-” Cas realizes his error of ambiguity. Redness rises up his neck to form flourishing splotches over his scruffy cheeks. “I meant, may I, uh, show you what I know about making a woman’s-”

“Oh, ‘cause that totally clears it up,” Dean interrupts, noshing another bite of toast.

Cas flinches and tries to withdraw his hand, but your palm flies to clasp around his wrist and press his fingers to your forehead.

“Forget about him. Just do it!” you consent, the command coming out maybe a bit more desperately that you planned.

“You heard the woman,” Dean goads.

Warmth radiates from the angel’s fingertips, his grace flooding your senses. Your eyelids blink heavily and shutter. In your mind’s eye he shows you in glorious detail what he knows about making a woman’s nethers quiver. It’s the visual equivalent of centuries of porn. Pure, unadulterated, heavenly porn. And it’s only the tip of the iceberg of his vast and highly specific understanding of the anatomy of pleasure. It’s technical, methodic, thorough, and you pray he isn’t aware of the slick of arousal soaking your panties or how much effort is required to suppress the urge to rub your thighs together to chase the friction this sensory incursion decidedly lacks. Perhaps praying isn’t the best idea right now. Or perhaps it is.

It’s over in a millisecond and when you open your eyes – panting, body wound tight and trembling with unreleased sexual frustration – he’s calmly staring at you in patient expectation of your learned assessment.

“That’s merely what can be achieved using the tongue.” He proudly informs. “I believe you call it foreplay.”

A high-pitched squeak emerges from your throat.

On your behalf, Dean translates the inarticulate sound, “No buddy, I believe that’s what we call being a tease.” He claps Cas roughly on the shoulder, “Best take a hands on approach to the show and tell sequel. And you know, maybe not in a diner. So cliché. The world already has one _When Harry Met Sally_ moment and I’d like a refill on my coffee sometime in the next century.”


End file.
